


For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of paradise

by Dancains



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Drug Use, Injury, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22874338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: Seeing him over the doctor’s shoulder, Jopson quieted, his wide, unfocused eyes suddenly narrowing in on the lieutenant’s presence. Edward had never seen his face–-typically rosy-cheeked in the perpetual Arctic cold–-so bloodlessly pale. The sole exception was a small red gash near to the line of his jaw.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of paradise

**Author's Note:**

> A short fill for the terror bingo prompt “laudanum”
> 
> Title from Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan”

Mister Gibson, sallow-faced and anxious, had only just finished explaining what had happened to Edward, before the lieutenant heard a veritable shriek erupting from _Terror_ ’s sickbay. He found it near impossible to attribute the sound to the diligent, docile captain’s steward he witnessed working each day. Like a hound on a scent, he followed the noise.

From what he had just swiftly gathered, Jopson had been exiting the steward’s pantry, his arms over-laden with patterned china dishes, the same moment Gibson (in a brief moment of inattention) stepped forward, the two men colliding, and the former being knocked back against a shelf, the dishes erupting into a puddle of blue-white shards on the floorboards below. Gibson was seemingly unharmed, and Jopson almost immediately took to the task of cleaning the mess, that was, until the other steward had noticed the trickle of blood at the back of his crown. Only through the combined efforts of Doctor McDonald and Mister Peddie, was he persuaded, or rather, half-carried to a sickbed.

“No…no…no…no-!” presently tumbled from Jopson’s lips, slurring into one long noise of protest, practically animal in its unguarded distress. He was writhing, violently, where he was laid, Peddie’s hand on his shoulder as McDonald attempted to bandage his head.

Without thinking, Little threw back the doorway’s curtain and made his way across the cramped room at the bow of the ship.

Seeing him over the doctor’s shoulder, Jopson quieted, his wide, unfocused eyes suddenly narrowing in on the lieutenant’s presence. Edward had never seen his face–typically rosy-cheeked in the perpetual Arctic cold–so bloodlessly pale. The sole exception was a small red gash near to the line of his jaw.

More accustomed to exerting his authority in actions, rather than words, Edward stepped even closer, motioning, sidling up next to Peddie, with one hand flat and forward, not unlike the type of visual command he might give to a well-trained horse or hunting dog.

Jopson’s chest still heaved, soon brushing Edward’s encroaching palm with each breath. He laid back on the pillow and closed his eyes, face going slack.

Edward locked eyes with McDonald, no doubt communicating his curiosity and concern. With his voice brought low, the ship’s surgeon instructed his assistant to finish the bandaging, before looking to Edward and tipping his chin towards the doorway.

Out in the corridor, McDonald spoke at once: “Please excuse the lad. He seemed in regular spirits when we took him down here…he only complained of feeling slightly dizzy, and, when pressed, admitted to a sharp pain in the back of his head-”

“Gibson told me he fell, or rather, was knocked over.”

McDonald nodded, “I do fear for a slight concussion, but he should be fine if monitored. It was only when I administered laudanum–and Mister Jopson realized what I had given him–he started to…panic.”

Edward knew McDonald was using a rather gentle word for it. He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, at the small sliver of a view the edge of the curtain afforded. Jopson seemed to be sleeping.

“Has the drug come into effect?”

“It’s more likely the bruise on his head. He might be in and out of it, for a time, but the tincture should ease his pain when he wakes.” The surgeon paused. “Perhaps when this is relayed to the captain-”

“Certain details might be…omitted. Yes, I was thinking the same.” Crozier had only just left Terror for a luncheon with Sir John and Commander Fitzjames, and would no doubt not return for some time, leaving Edward with particular responsibilities beyond his usual realm. He considered excusing himself, leaving the conversation at that, but a poignant curiosity still pierced through him, sharper than any arrow.

“What do you make of Mister Jopson’s reaction?”

McDonald creased his fatherly brow. “While a substance such as laudanum is perfectly safe when administered in the proper quantity by a physician, it is, unfortunately, often overused to the state of indulgence, or even addiction, by some members of our society’s working classes. It’s a devil of a thing to be weaned off of when one becomes a serious user. It is…possible… he’s had a previous experience of…this sort, and fears a relapse.”

“ _Jopson?_ It’s hard to imagine.” Edward became aware, embarrassingly, of the near-personal offense his voice carried. If anyone aboard knew of indulgence, he thought privately, it was the master, nay the servant.

The surgeon made a placating motion. “Or perhaps, more likely, he has witnessed the downfall of a loved one, a family member, or acquaintance, in such circumstances. I would think such a thing shouldn’t be held against the man.”

“Of course not,” Edward replied, having reigned in his tone. He noticed that McDonald was, almost subconsciously, rubbing at his elbow, as if some ache troubled him there.

“Are you quite alright, Doctor?” Somewhere below or around them, the pack ice gave a particularly dirge-like groan.

“Oh. Fine, fine, yes. Mister Jopson has a bit of hidden strength, I suppose you could say–an occupational hazard.”

Edward nodded, only the slightest inclination of his chin. Two AB’s passed by them in the slim corridor, saluting Edward as they passed. “I’ll let you get back to it then.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

In the next hour or two that passed, his thoughts repeatedly drifted below, to the man who was sleeping, or perhaps shifting about restlessly, fading in and out of afflicted slumber. It would make ample sense, wouldn’t it, to pay the invalid a visit, in lieu of their absent captain?

The ship’s surgeon was leaving just as he came. “I need to check in with one of the seamen who was complaining of a mild head-cold,” said McDonald. “Jopson has just awoken, if that’s who you’re looking for, Sir.”

The steward’s eyes were closed when he walked in, night-black hair in ruffled disorder from the lines of bandages above his brows. Either McDonald or Peddie had taken it upon themselves to remove the man’s neck-cloth, the dark hollow of the man’s throat laid bare.

“How are you feeling, Jopson?” The words seemed to come as if from a foreign tongue, Hanging cumbersomely in the sick bay’s stale air. There were no other patients about. Edward wearily eyes the cabinet of small vials on one wall, the glass barely catching the faint lamplight in the corner of his vision.

Jopson propped himself up on his elbows, the halting movement reminiscent of a drunkard. Once situated, his keen gray eyes swept lazily up and down Edward’s form, seemingly inspecting and cataloging every inch of him. The lieutenant felt himself temporarily plagued by a strain of self-consciousness rarely caused by the gaze of a subordinate. He reassured himself that Jopson was quite possibly confused, disorientated. From what little he knew of laudanum and its effects, this was no doubt typical. The strained, wordless pause continued long enough that he considered repeating the question.

“Oh, _lovely,_ Sir. I feel _lovely,_ ” Jopson finally answered, with genuine warmth. He stretched, arching his back, luxuriating in the movement like a contented house cat lounging in the midday sun. “‘Specially ’cause..you’ve come to visit.”

Edward didn’t know what on earth to say to that. Instead, he cleared his throat. “When I spoke to Doctor McDonald earlier, he said the cut on your face was quite clean, that it probably won’t even leave a scar.”

Unexpectedly, Jopson gestured for him to come closer. Edward complied.

“It’d be okay..already have one,” Jopson whispered gravely. Suddenly a mischievous look crossed his face. “D’you want’a see it?” Without waiting for an answer, he began to push off the cot’s sheets. “Have t’ take off my trousers, though-”

“No! no, that’s quite fine. I believe you.” Edward took him by the wrist, for it seemed to be the most prudent way to stop him. He was thankful they were alone–if only for the possibility of Jopson’s later embarrassment. 

Jopson stared at his own hand encapsulated in Edward’s grip as if it was some foreign entity. They seemed momentarily frozen, like the white-plaster statues in the Littles’ back garden, where creeping ivy and wildflowers grew. Figures from an obscure Greek tragedy someone brighter than Edward would recognize. His fingers slackened, not yet letting go.

He had seen Jopson’s hands countless times before, but never had such a generous opportunity to study them–calloused and well-built, with a feathering of dark hair at his wrist and disappearing down his shirt sleeve.

A strange sense of wrongness, struck Edward then, images of the hands ever so delicately mending lace and linens…sewing buttons and serving tea cakes…gently combing the captain’s graying hair. Could it have been something else–-a sick jealousy?–-that made the muscle in his thighs jump and twitch, that made every point of contact prickle like the jab of a pin.

As if realizing, like a newborn foal, he could master his own limbs, Jopson moved the hovering hand only a few inches, until his index finger laid gently upon Edward’s chin.

“You always look so sad. An’ probably, you don’t think anybody can see.”

A bitter flood almost uncorks itself, then and there, of emotions and thoughts and sentiments buried so deeply within him that the shouldn’t–couldn’t–be let free.

Jopson’s own shifting fancy arrived as his saving grace. Hand falling back to the bed sheet, He looked to something in a far corner of the cabin. Edward followed his gaze, finding nothing there.

“It made her happy, you know,” Jopson told him somberly.

“Her? Who do you mean?” he gently pried. “What made her happy?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he began to comprehend a possible meaning.

It was then that Jopson’s breath went short, a sound coming from his throat like that of a choked sob. From the heavy patter of footsteps behind him, Edward knew that Doctor McDonald had returned. Turning, he was surprised to see Gibson’s tall, inelegant personage trailing behind him.

“Lieutenant Little, Sir, the captain has returned and I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

Sparing one regretful glance towards Jopson, and the obvious pain that still painted his features, Edward squared his slumped shoulders and left to make his report.


End file.
